Sunrise
by dimerization
Summary: A few days after dropping Maj. Alenko off at the Citadel for medical treatment, Cmdr. Shepard is up in the middle of the night, trying to shake off the bad dreams alone. She's fighting a losing battle with PTSD after her death and resurrection by Cerberus. ME3 Post-Mars, rated for language, alcohol abuse. (Feeling in the Pipeline #1)


_Silence. It's the first thing she notices, the dead quiet pressing hard on her eardrums til her labored breathing shrieks in her ears like tearing steel. Then the light, red-white-red-white as she spins over and over, the burning ship on one side and the rising star on the other, her body out of control with nothing to grab onto, nothing to slow her down. Her vision is cloudy – why? There are knives in her skull, in her back, sinking deep into her spine, and she realizes her corneas are freezing. Her lungs burn and crackle as they fill with ice; the dome of her helmet is starred with frost. What is she even breathing? She doesn't know, can't think, hands flailing frantically for the holes in her suit that she will never be able to find in time. The starlight glitters on the rime of ice covering her flesh. Dimly, she sees it sparkling; dimly, she remembers jettisoning the last life pod. Snatching at the punctured material between her shoulder blades, she wonders why she should bother._ Well, this is it _, she thinks, and it all goes dark. Somewhere, a million miles below, the sun is rising._

Shepard fell out of bed, thrashing frantically, sheets knotted around her legs. After a few moments of panicked kicking she managed to sit up, leaning against her bedside table and reaching down to pull her legs free of the bedding with shaking hands. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I need a drink._ There was still some Batarian shard wine left on her desk, and she had vodka in the closet. She staggered to the front of her room, slapping on the lights. Bottle in hand, she leaned her head against the glass of her fish tank, watching the jellyfish pulsing lazily under the aquarium lights. The fish calmed her; they gave her something else to think about besides dying. She took a drink of her wine and discovered it was nearly empty – another long pull finished the bottle. She dropped it on the top step and went in search of her vodka. A shot burned hot in her throat, chasing away the chill of outer space. Shepard shuddered. _I don't even_ like _vodka._ But it was all she'd been able to find the last time she bought liquor. It was a hell of a lot better than nothing.

She collapsed on her couch, staring at her treacherous bed with bleary eyes. _Drinking alone out of the bottle, Shepard._ She toasted herself, mouth twisted into a bitter smile. _I am powerless over alcohol and it has ruined my life._ Another mouthful of booze. She dropped her head onto the back of the sofa and waited for the shots to hit. _I'm fucking exhausted, but Christ if I never sleep again..._ It's the dreams that are the problem. _At least I actually woke up this time, no false-awakening bullshit tonight._ She held up a hand. It was no longer shaking. _God, I still feel cold._ She gritted her teeth against the memory of the nightmare and rose, pacing her floor, to the door and back again, bottle in hand.

She paused at her desk after a few turns, staring at her model ships, eyes half-focused on the tiny shuttle. _I wonder how Kaidan's doing..._ She rubbed the grit from her eyes and took another mouthful of vodka, then set the bottle down on her desk. The _bang_ of heavy glass on hard polymer made her twitch – she hadn't meant to put it down so hard. She stalked to her closet, yanking on a pair of pants so she could have some pockets to shove her hands into. _That asshole. He'd better live._ She leaned against the closet door, the metal cool on her forehead. She could still see him, that stand-up soldier – _that high and mighty Alliance jackass, with his pips and his perfect stubble,_ part of her hissed – assessing her coolly through his visor. _Everyone blames me for dying and getting resurrected by Cerberus, but what the hell was I supposed to do? Let them lock me up or put a goddamn chip in my head? For fuck's sake, I was_ dead, _I didn't_ make _those choices._ She shoved off from the door, furious that he wasn't there for her to shout at.

Pacing again, up and down, up and down. It was easy during the day, surrounded by her crew and locked up tight in her professionalism, not hard at all to cram the nightmares and the fear down tight where she didn't have to look at it. But at night, alone in her quarters, in the dark... She'd tried leaving the lights on, but it didn't help. She didn't know if it was just that she got tired, or if solitude was the problem. She couldn't quite make herself care. _It wasn't even the worst dream,_ she thought, rage and misery filling her throat til she thought she might choke. She washed the feelings down with another swig of vodka.

No, the worst flashback by far, worse than getting spaced, worse than the sight of her CO screaming at the place where his legs and pelvis used to be, worse than the Batarians dragging her dad away – the worst was that helpless moment when she woke up on a Cerberus slab, unable to move her limbs, every inch of her body fuzzy and drugged but on fire with pain. She could still see Miranda Lawson standing over her, all hard eyes and glittering perfection; again she felt the jolt of recognition as she saw the Cerberus logo on her collar, and then the anaesthetic had risen up and dragged her back down into the dark. _Meat and tubes_ , Jacob had said. Two days ago she'd spent ninety minutes in the shower going over every inch of her body, searching for the exit wounds. But they'd grown her back too well. She sneered. _Grew me back, rebuilt me,_ saved _me. Like I'm some construct of theirs. Like they did something_ good _for me._ _They could at least have had the decency to give me back my scars._ She missed the huge mark splitting her face in half, the angry weal that came courtesy of a Thresher Maw's attack and used to make people shy away from her in surprise and horror. The implants marked her skin and glowed behind her eyes, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't enough. She wished she could look in the mirror and see everything that had ever been done to her. She wanted _proof._

She poured herself another shot, seeing Kaidan's cold, brown eyes picking her over, mistrustful and wary. _Why does it hurt so much from him? Stupid question._ _But he's working his way up toward the brass, sly bastard._ But she couldn't do it – there was no mental trick she could play to stop caring, to turn him into another Alliance rep. _Goddamn it, Kaidan, you came with me to the end. We fought Sovereign together and_ this _is what I get from you? Christ. You gave a damn about me once. And I, fuck_ me, _I give a damn about you now._ _I've lost too many friends already, too many people I – people – well, watching that mech try to smash your skull in, I haven't felt like that since..._ She couldn't think of an example.

Shepard collapsed into a chair, leaning her elbows on her desk and putting her head in her hands. _Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it be some stranger, some grunt? Fuck._ She shut her eyes, trading places with him for the thousandth time, fighting her way free of the mech again and again. _I just want this last thing before the Reapers kill me. I want to wrap myself in human arms and bury my face in his hair and remember what it feels like to be alive._ She'd spent too long as a spacefaring automaton, never stopping for rest, a professional neck-deep in colleagues and an alien among aliens, more of an archetype than an organism. _Who would I be if the slavers had never hit Mindoir? What would I have done? Would I have had a home?_ She couldn't even picture it.

 _It's like there's nothing left of me but rage. I'm all bones and bile, living again just to piss everyone off._ She sipped contemplatively at her vodka, watching the room swim. _I'm so fucking sick of massacres. I'm sick of watching my people die._ _But Kaidan – hell. If he pulls through..._ She just wanted him to believe her. _I just want to be held by someone warm and gentle, I want to talk to somebody without a damn interpreter in the way. God. Fuck._ She drank the rest of her liquor down, doing her best not to think anymore, but it didn't work. It never fucking worked.


End file.
